I am sick of a flag used as a blindfold,
red white and blue wrapped tight
around throats that never got a trial.
I am sick of badges that learn to breathe
only when someone else stops.
Sick of uniforms that call it “procedure”
when it’s terror with paperwork.
ICE knocks like a storm that knows your name,
rips families from kitchens,
leaves toys waiting for hands
that aren’t coming back.
They say “law,”
but laws don’t cry like that.
And above it all, the rot smiles politely.
Epstein’s ghosts line the hallways of power,
files sealed with gold-stamped silence,
names protected like endangered species
while the children never were.
Disgust is too small a word.
This is nausea in the bones.
This is watching truth drown
in a room full of lifeboats
reserved for the rich.
They tell us to trust the system—
the same system that shreds the poor
and launders the sins of predators
until they come out crisp and respectable.
I don’t want your speeches.
I don’t want your flags on lapels
or prayers after the damage is done.
I want the dead to stop piling up
beneath words like “policy” and “classified.”
If this is what power looks like,
then my disgust is a form of clarity.
I refuse to call this justice.
I refuse to call this normal.
Feb 5
Feb 5, 2026 at 11:01 PM UTC
I am sick of a flag used as a blindfold,
red white and blue wrapped tight
around throats that never got a trial.
I am sick of badges that learn to breathe
only when someone else stops.
Sick of uniforms that call it “procedure”
when it’s terror with paperwork.
ICE knocks like a storm that knows your name,
rips families from kitchens,
leaves toys waiting for hands
that aren’t coming back.
They say “law,”
but laws don’t cry like that.
And above it all, the rot smiles politely.
Epstein’s ghosts line the hallways of power,
files sealed with gold-stamped silence,
names protected like endangered species
while the children never were.
Disgust is too small a word.
This is nausea in the bones.
This is watching truth drown
in a room full of lifeboats
reserved for the rich.
They tell us to trust the system—
the same system that shreds the poor
and launders the sins of predators
until they come out crisp and respectable.
I don’t want your speeches.
I don’t want your flags on lapels
or prayers after the damage is done.
I want the dead to stop piling up
beneath words like “policy” and “classified.”
If this is what power looks like,
then my disgust is a form of clarity.
I refuse to call this justice.
I refuse to call this normal.
